Natural Connections

Early spring is when male fishers travel widely in search of mating opportunities. I often see their tracks in the softening snow as they tour their 9-15 square mile home ranges that overlap the smaller territories of several females.

I stared open-mouthed in disbelief at the cat crossing the neighborhood street in front of my new house in Silver Bay, MN (I'll be moving up full time in 2027). Trotting purposefully on long legs, with a body almost three feet long, this was no housecat. "Bobcat!" I exclaimed, eyeing the black tip on their short tail and dark blotches on gray-brown fur. Bobcats are common in Northern Wisconsin where I've been living for the past 15 years, and are often spotted around homes and roads, so that was the most likely identification my startled brain could find.  But as the cat climbed up the pile of dirty snow on the curb and into my neighbor's yard, the size of their huge, furry feet came into full view. That, along with long black ear tufts visible against the white, confirmed their identity: Canada lynx.

Evening grosbeaks are colorful members of the finch family. These bright birds travel widely toward the best food sources in movements known as "irruptions." In 2016, the evening grosbeak was cited as the steepest declining landbird in the continental United States and Canada. Together, networks of scientists and legions of bird-lovers are working to make sure that the Sun isn't setting on evening grosbeaks. How can you help? If you see grosbeaks, post your photos to iNaturalist or eBird where scientists can use them as data to determine where the birds are and what they are eating. Or if you're lucky enough to see one with a colored band, report it to the USGS Bird Banding Laboratory. Learn about ways to prevent birds from colliding with your windows from the American Bird Conservancy. Keep cats inside. Keep your bird feeders clean and take them down if you notice sick birds. Support the Finch Research Network and other conservation organizations with your donations. Scientists have come together in an Evening Grosbeak Working Group to fill the knowledge gaps across priority areas like diet, causes of death, migratory and population dynamics, habitat, and climate change. Among other things, scientists are outfitting grosbeaks with satellite and radio transmitters and colored leg bands to help track their movements. 

As my boots crunched and sunk into the snow, the trees were shedding bits of snow that littered their branches, dispatched by the wind. In my attempts to avoid getting showered by falling snow, I found myself walking among scattered giants. Standing next to the old eastern hemlock, staring up at the towering trunk, I began to feel very small as I imagined what this tree has lived through and the things that they have seen. How many generations of songbirds have nested in their branches, or found food in their cones? How many generations of deer, bears, wolves, and other wildlife have they seen treading beneath their branches? How have they seen us change, and do they like what they see? How have they watched the world change around them, as they stand rooted in place?

"'I know the moon,' said the fox"  My colleague read this title line aloud from a children's book recently, as part of a staff training. At first, I was just as enchanted with the story as she was. The fox goes on to describe how the Moon is like a rabbit that he can chase across the night.  The moth disagrees with the fox, though, as does the owl, the mouse, and the bullfrog. The animals start bickering about who's right. They decide to visit A Man of Science, and each Being hopes that he will confirm their perspective. But the Man of Science declares that the Moon is made of sand, and nothing more. I sensed that the author was trying to make some point about how the facts and figures of science are out to squash wonder in the world. How horrible that would be! I realized that the author had constructed a strawman argument by setting up a simplistic imagined opponent that's easy to knock down. Giving children an incorrect view of science and scientists isn't going to help them navigate our changing world. It isn't going to help them to know the Moon.    Here's a few fun links to info about the Moon:    https://www.amazon.com/I-Know-Moon-Stephen-Anderson/dp/039923425X https://radiolab.org/podcast/the-moon-itself/transcript https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2021/06/whip-poor-will.html https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2018/09/stranger-than-we-can-imagine.html https://www.sciencealert.com/our-moon-is-curiously-lopsided-and-a-massive-impact-could-be-to-blame https://www.amnh.org/exhibitions/permanent/meteorites/meteorite-impacts/on-the-moon https://science.nasa.gov/moon/tidal-locking/ https://science.nasa.gov/moon/weather-on-the-moon/ https://science.nasa.gov/moon/formation/ https://science.nasa.gov/moon/composition/ https://www.universetoday.com/articles/moons-insides-still-hot-hot-hot-after-billions-of-years-of-formation-study

The idea that a woodpecker's tongue provides cushioning for their brain as it wraps around their skull has come into question. The newest calculations, made with the most accurate modern technology, refute the idea that a woodpecker's brain is cushioned at all! Of course, any of these conclusions might be proven wrong or incomplete as scientists discover new information in the future. The beauty of science is that it requires us to be able to change our minds in light of new evidence. One thing that doesn't need to change is the magic we feel when we watch a great black bird with a flaming topknot spread their broad wings and with a few swooping beats disappear into the forest.

Brown creepers are cute little bits of camouflage with white bellies. This one moved upward in staccato motions, a bit to the side, around to the back, back to the front, and up some more. Pausing, the bird used their thin, downward-curving bill to explore a bark furrow. Perhaps they had spotted an overwintering insect larvae or antifreeze-protected spider for their lunch. Near the limit of my view out the window, the creeper suddenly launched off the tree and fluttered downward toward another tree trunk, out of sight.

As snow continues to blanket the ground, and the plummeting temperatures cause the air to bite at exposed skin, I can't help but reminisce on warm summer day adventures. One adventure in particular had me exploring local wetlands, those special places where water and land blend together to create exquisite, diverse ecosystems. One wetland gifted me with a memory I won't soon forget, and reminded me just how beautiful even the simplest experiences in nature are.

This is the season for lists highlighting our most-listened-to or best-of-whatevers at the end of the year, so I decided to dig into the stats on my Natural Connections blog. To my surprise, the most-read article in 2025 was one I wrote in February of 2016 about a plant called mullein. In August 2025 it spiked in popularity, far above my normal readership. I have no idea why. I recently told someone the story of finding the chickadee-cached seed in the mullein stalk, but I'd forgotten about the rest of the article. It's fun! And appropriate to this season. So, I hope you enjoy it as much as the 1.24K other readers did, too! Happy New Year! –Emily

Bohemian waxwings are known for their ability to find a tree full of berries in the middle of nowhere, descend on it en masse, strip every edible fruit from the twigs, and then disappear to their next meal. That's exactly what they did as I watched.

Heading north on Highway 63, the beautiful scenery never fails to keep me entertained as I drive through the picturesque nature of the Northwoods. While my thoughts wandered, a large dark spot high in a distant tree caught my eye. At first, I thought it might be a squirrel drey–a large nest of twigs and leaves built high in a tree. But as I got closer, I realized that it was a porcupine! Once my excitement calmed down, curiosity began to take its place. I began to wonder why exactly this porcupine was high up in the tree on this late fall morning. The answer may lie within the feeding strategies of the North American porcupine.

As winter's first snowflakes drifted through the dark, some landed on top of dead plants, fallen leaves, twigs, and other detritus of the forest floor. In many places, snow never fully reached the ground. That was surely true for the protected hideaway of my thermometer. By dawn, it was buried under six inches and counting.  Despite falling temperatures, the relative warmth of the cold rain and the residual heat of summer were still radiating from the soil. At sunrise, when I checked the weather station, the air temp had dropped to 24 degrees Fahrenheit, but the sensor cozied up to the earth under a fresh blanket of snow read 33 degrees. After two winters of thin snow, the Subnivean Zone has returned! Read all about it in this week's Natural Connections or listen to the podcast. Find links to both at https://www.cablemuseum.org/connect/ or in our profile. Check out Emily's third book, hot off the press! Natural Connections 3: A Web Endlessly Woven, is available  at several local bookstores, at the Cable Natural History Museum, or at cablemuseum.org/connect! 

The arching stems, decorative berries, and warmly hued, persistent fall foliage of barberry, plus the complete lack of deer browse on their twigs, are why they were brought to the U.S. as an ornamental plant in 1875. That was fine, until in the 1980s they started to spread out and displace native plants. Now Japanese barberry is considered invasive in 17 states, including Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa.  A barberry thicket also provides a safe, fox-resistant haven for mice, and a shady, humid home for ticks. Deer ticks feed on mice, who are reservoirs for Lyme disease. 

The shallow water in Northwoods marshes and bays began to crackle with a skim of ice recently, gently reminding everyone that winter is on the way. Ice-up is a firm deadline for many beings who migrate to travel at least a little bit farther south. I got caught up in the flurry of activity and soon found myself in the Mississippi River Flyway swooping around the hills and corners of the Great River Road with other Northerners heading south.    Check out Emily's third book, hot off the press! Natural Connections 3: A Web Endlessly Woven, is available  at several local bookstores, at the Cable Natural History Museum, or at cablemuseum.org/connect! 

Beside the trail stood a spreading shrub with a few rays of sunlight illuminating tiny yellow flowers that looked just like sunbursts themselves. Witch-hazel! The flower-dappled shrub twinkled like a reminder of spring. While they do bloom near Halloween, witch-hazel's name is probably a misspelling of old English words wicke or wych that meant "lively" and "to bend." They refer to the use of a forked branch of witch-hazel as a dowsing rod, which purportedly would bend downward to point out a good location to dig a well. In a bit of reverse-dowsing, rain showers helped me see the leaf, and sun rays helped me see the witch-hazel. On that fall day, I found a deep well of beauty. 

"Turn here, they're heading north!" I directed my fiancé as we navigated the gravel roads of Crex Meadows Wildlife Area near Grantsburg, WI. We'd spotted a line of sandhill cranes flying through the sunset sky, and were following them toward what we hoped would be a spectacular evening of birdwatching. 

The air shimmered as I walked through the forest, the heavy mists encompassing me in a damp blanket. As my shoes trod on soggy leaves, I took in the quiet serenity of the forest. Many of the trees had begun their annual changing of the colors, painting the canopy in shades of yellow, orange, red and green. Their discarded leaves were already beginning to dot the forest floor in late September. But fallen leaves weren't the only contributors of color on the ground–the fall mushrooms were popping in the Northwoods.

At first, a flutter at the edge of my vision made me think that an autumn leaf had somehow managed to fall half a mile to the middle of the lake. A closer look revealed the dark purple wings of a mourning cloak butterfly. In late September?  Weeks later, a flutter at the edge of my vision caught my attention just in time to watch an autumn leaf come to rest on the ground. Small quaking aspen leaves carpeted the trail in a mosaic of yellow and green. They were evidence of yet another way that a Lepidopteran (butterflies and moths) survives the winter. Colorful leaves and colorful wings flutter on fall breezes, all getting ready for winter. 

“Just hold her like this,” Kurt told me. So I carefully nestled my first two fingers into the soft, warm feathers around the neck of this tiny northern saw-whet owl, cradled her soft, warm torso in the palm of my hand, and secured her brown and white wings with my thumb and other fingers. My heart stopped for a moment, but under those soft, warm feathers I could feel her smaller heart racing.    Learn more about the volunteer opportunities with Mike and Kurt's saw-whet owl nest box and MOTUS tower research on the Museum's iVolunteer page: https://cablenhm.ivolunteer.com/saw-whet-owl-research

Finally, within sight of the next lake, movement near the toe of my boot startled me almost to the point of disaster.  Big black eyes with golden rims stared up at me from the slope of a rock. Crooked toes gripped the rough surface, and long hind legs braced for a quick escape. The green frog who had jumped out from underneath my boot perched motionless, as if that made them invisible.

Last week I wrote about acorns clattering across my roof. As it turns out, nuts are raining down on many of your roofs, too! Commiserating over the loud, foot-rolling acorns makes me feel like part of an extended community. Are the oaks part of a similar community? And why are they suddenly attacking us with acorns! Oaks are mast species, which means that all the trees in an area will produce a bumper crop of acorns at the same time, but only every two to five years. From mice to owls to chatting neighbors, oaks, and the mystery of their mast years, are at the center of our Northwoods community.

The pontoon bobbed in the water as I stepped onto the deck, clutching binoculars and trying to contain my excitement. Since moving to the Northwoods in the middle of winter, I had been waiting for the chance to see a loon, and my chance finally arrived in late May. The sunlight danced across the water as our boat left the dock, and we began our search. It wasn't long before we spotted the silhouette of a loon off in the distance, and headed for a closer look. 

Crack! Rumble, rumble, rumble. Crack! The sound of hard objects pelting my metal roof shot through my open bedroom window, rousing me from the last wisps of sleep. Then silence. I braced myself as a soft hush of wind drew closer. Crack! The wind triggered a new spatter of noises. The house was under attack—by acorns.  Two large red oak trees reach the edges of their canopies out over the roof of my house. Each fall, they create a racket as acorns drop on the metal roof, tumble down the steep slope, and launch out over the driveway. Some years are worse than others, since oaks are mast trees who will produce a bumper crop in one year, then spend subsequent years rebuilding their stores of nutrients and not producing as many acorns. This is clearly a mast year. 

Shades of Rot and Life (This essay is a chapter from Emily's third book, Natural Connections3: A Web Endlessly Woven, which will arrive in November 2025!) In the dim light, under the thick, hardwood canopy of the forest, death was everywhere.  Of course, life was everywhere too.

We'd only been watching for a few minutes when suddenly one of the loons took off running and flapping down the bay toward the main lake. Huge, webbed feet splashed at the surface. As soon as the first loon rose above the water, the remaining loon followed in a flurry of flapping wings and feet. What had just happened? The group looked around at each other in amazement, feeling lucky to have witnessed this fascinating bit of loon behavior.

Although the temperature plummeted and rain ran off our jackets, our excitement and determination could not be dampened. Rubber boots tromped over soggy leaf litter, and hands grasped at every fallen log, flipping them over as we searched the forest. The Wild Wonders campers and I were on a mission, seeking out an animal who thrives in rainy conditions–the salamander.

I was just about ready to round up the group and move on from the old quarry when someone exclaimed over a pretty white flower among the weeds. Five luminous petals, each with translucent lines arcing gracefully toward the nectar reservoir in the center, provided the backdrop for a ring of delicate eyelashes tipped with glossy yellow spheres. I could barely believe my eyes! I first met bog star, or marsh grass-of-Parnassus, during my summer in Alaska while assisting with a snowshoe hare study in the Brooks Range. This little beauty captured my imagination immediately.

Guest writer Katherine Woolley is about to start her junior year as an environmental education major at Western Colorado University. This summer, as a Summer Naturalist Intern at the Museum, she taught our Junior Naturalist programs and showed a real talent for finding and appreciating the oddest parts of nature.  I spotted the male first. He was sitting on the highest point of the mushroom shelf like he was the king of the hill. Then I spotted his mate, who to my surprise, looked like she was sitting up. I knelt down and cocked my head to the side to get a better look. For beetles who usually crawl on all six legs, this was an unusual position. Was she laying eggs? 

Guest writer Katherine Woolley is about to start her junior year as an environmental education major at Western Colorado University. This summer, as a Summer Naturalist Intern at the Museum, she taught our Junior Naturalist programs and showed a real talent for finding and appreciating the oddest parts of nature.  A walk along the Forest Lodge Nature Trail is never boring. I was reveling in this fact as I took my evening meander through the large trunks of towering trees. To my left, I spotted a shelf fungus clinging to the bark of a half-decayed paper birch stump. Creeping closer to investigate, I squealed with delight. There they were! Two forked fungus beetles were nestled in the corner of their polypore home.

Guest writer Kylie Tatarka is about to start her senior year as an environmental science major at Rochester Institute of Technology. This summer, as a Summer Naturalist Intern at the Museum, she taught our Junior Naturalist programs and spearheaded the creation of the online  “Becoming the Northwoods” exhibit.  Seeing the aspen-covered ground reminded me of a tree that is more common in my home state of New York, the eastern cottonwood tree, which is a relative of the aspen with similar cotton-tufted seeds. I grew an affection for these trees while leading a seed dispersal hike. With the kids, we discovered examples of seeds that are dispersed by wind, water, animals, gravity, and bursting. Now I'm always on the lookout for plants with interesting methods of seed dispersal.

The Boundary Waters is beautiful, but that's only part of it. What really keeps people coming back, I believe, is the way this place helps us to challenge ourselves. When you cut out the excess, the superfluous, and the mess, and fit everything necessary for a week or two of life into a single, green pack, life becomes simple. There is an incredible sense of freedom in this knowledge of self-sufficiency. This freedom feels all the more sweet when it comes with manageable challenges and a means to test our mettle.

Upon spotting the green dragonfly resting close enough for me to capture, I knew I had to try. With my kayak nestled into the grassy bank of the Namekagon River, I snapped a few photos of my target and began to reach my hand out slowly. But when my fingers gently grasped the dragonfly, I was horrified to find that it was squishy rather than the typical hard feeling of an exoskeleton. My hand shot back to my side in an instant, repulsed. My first thought was that the dragonfly was dead and waterlogged.

The calm waters of Lake Superior glimmered in midday sunshine, and dozens of families enjoyed the sandy beach of Big Bay Town Park on Madeline Island. I hiked past them all, my steps echoing slightly on the boardwalk that winds through pine forest behind the beach.  In the lagoon where decomposition has slowed and organic matter has accumulated over time, a floating mat of Sphagnum moss and sedges holds numerous treasures in a type of wetland called a fen. Treasures I was hunting!

If an elk calf can make it through their first year, they have a 92 percent chance of surviving each year after that. The DNR is in year two of a three-year effort to understand the survival rates and mortality factors of that first perilous year. Do the young do better where there's been a recent timber harvest or other disturbance? How important is it for the maternity habitat to have a view? To answer these and other questions, they attempt to locate and deploy a GPS collar on 25 calves as soon as possible each spring.

Something small and bright caught my eye. Stopping mid-stride and mid-conversation, I bent down to look at a small jumble of legs and exoskeletons in the tread of the Ice Age Trail. The yellow mantle behind the head of a black carrion beetle is what I'd noticed first. They are quite striking, even when rooting around in the decaying flesh of a recently dead animal, looking for a place to lay their eggs. The adults eat dead stuff, too, hence the bear hug this one was giving a shiny brown, but unmoving, carcass of a Junebug. 

Something small and bright caught my eye. Stopping mid-stride and mid-conversation, I bent down to look at a small jumble of legs and exoskeletons in the tread of the Ice Age Trail. The yellow mantle behind the head of a black carrion beetle is what I'd noticed first. They are quite striking, even when rooting around in the decaying flesh of a recently dead animal, looking for a place to lay their eggs. The adults eat dead stuff, too, hence the bear hug this one was giving a shiny brown, but unmoving, carcass of a Junebug. 

Excitement and nerves were at an all time high as my car crept down the gravel road, the sun having just slipped below the horizon. I was on the hunt, following clues to lead me to my prize. My treasure was the somewhat elusive American woodcock, and I was hoping to catch a glimpse of their infamous skydance.

Although I often hear their rattling bugle calls echoing across the lake and through my open windows, having cranes nest where I could see them was a new treat. For a few weeks, every warm afternoon found me biking along that stretch of road with my camera at the ready. Each time, the evening sunlight spotlighted the face of a crane on the nest.

Last Sunday I was asked to give the message for the Chequamegon Unitarian Universalist Flower Ceremony. Everyone brought a flower, they were admired in a bouquet, and each person left with a different flower. This symbolized the unique value of each person and the way we came together to create a beautiful bouquet. To illustrate this idea, I chose to talk about ghost pipe (previously named Indian pipe), a plant whom I've been puzzling over for a while. In preparing the talk, I realized that I'd learned a lot from ghost pipe.

Scientist E.O. Wilson's book Biophilia hypothesized that humans possess an innate tendency to seek connections with nature and other forms of life. He wrote, “To an extent still undervalued in philosophy and religion, our existence depends on this propensity, our spirit is woven from it, hope rises on its currents." I watched as the Wilson's Warbler bounced like popcorn through the narrow, willow-ish leaves of an unknown desert shrub. While this bird was named for a different Wilson, he certainly satisfied E.O. Wilson's Biophilia.

I apologize for the weird audio quality this week! I'm traveling -- as you'll hear -- and my audio editing program did an update that takes out breath noises, etc, automatically. But that also changes how my voice sounds and seems to reduce enunciation. If it's too annoying to listen to, you can read the article at: https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/ 

At the trailhead, the woods were set alight by the sunshine reflecting off the melting snow. While my boots crunched down the trail, my eyes wandered to the trees where life was starting to awaken. Lichens, mosses, and mushrooms decorated the bark in a burst of bright greens, yellows and oranges–a welcome sight against the backdrop of the forest.

“What sweet ode shall we write to spring? Soft and tremulous one minute, tempestuous the next, she proffers her gifts with one fair hand and with the other snatches them away.”  –Lois Nestel, Wayside Wanderings II

A faint string of birdsong filtered through closed windows on a recent morning. It was well after dawn, but thick gray clouds made it feel like the Sun had yet to rise. “Song sparrow!” I exclaimed. “They must have arrived overnight!” 

The grouse drummed again; thumping slowly at first, and then crescendoing into a rapid-fire blur. As his last vibrations dissipated into the still air, another grouse answered from a neighboring territory. The low-frequency sounds are audible from up to a quarter mile away. I'm always amazed by how much I feel their sound instead of hearing it.

For three days in the summer of 2018 we worked on this mark-recapture survey along a pipeline access road in the Brooks Range of northern Alaska, gathering data that would help scientists at the nearby Gates of the Arctic National Park estimate snowshoe hare population numbers for this year. Our opinion? The population was high. Almost every trap was full, which meant a delayed lunch, and that sense of relief to find an empty trap.

Listening to a pair of wood ducks explode from a tiny patch of open water in a woodland pond and woo-eek through the woods is a distinctly springtime experience. Wood ducks are uniquely adapted for life in the forest, with strong claws on their webbed toes that allow them to perch on tree branches. Scaring up a pair of wood ducks together is common, because these ducks find a mate on their wintering grounds and arrive home together. 

The first ice cave was a wonder to behold. Crouching low, we shuffled into the crack that was the cave entrance. The light from our headlamps danced across the cave walls and highlighted the mass of clear ice that extended from the ceiling to the surface of the lake. As other tour guests took pictures with the glowing ice, I was marveling at the cave formation. Sitting under a low-hanging section of the cave, I began to think about how these caves along Chequamegon Bay are formed.

For recording time-activity-budgets for loons, Jay has an app on his phone that is set to beep at 2-minute intervals for an hour. At every beep, the binocular-wielding observers help the recorder mark down the behavior. Was the loon resting, locomoting, preening, foraging, or being aggressive? And was the loon within 25 body lengths of another loon? How many loons? One of the main goals of this research is to compare how loons on the salt-free waters of Lake Jocassee spend their time, versus loons who spend their winter on the ocean.

The first day of Loon Camp begins with a count of all the loons on Lake Jocassee, which is why I was now puttering through the upper lake on a pontoon boat with Jay, Brooks, and seven other “loonatics.” With eyes scanning and binoculars at the ready, we spotted solo loons fishing in the deep water, rafts of loons preening near shore, and gaggles of smaller waterfowl like horned grebes, too. Jay kept the tally on his data sheet, and we were free to be amazed by the loons. 

Note from Emily Stone: I'm so excited that Heaven has joined our Museum team! In between teaching MuseumMobile programs in schools, organizing spring field trips, and leading Junior Naturalist Programs, Heaven will be guest writing for Natural Connections about once a month. I'm looking forward to following her journey of discovery in the Northwoods!   Heaven in the Northwoods: "The wonders of nature have fascinated me from a young age. Now I strive to understand the intricate natural workings of each place I live or visit. Cable, Wisconsin, is my newest place of interest. As the new Educator/Naturalist at the Cable Natural History Museum, I will get to use my fascination with the environment to connect both myself and the public with Northwoods nature."